The night was dark and my eyes were not what they should have been. Nor was I. Older, perhaps, but not wiser. The white lines blurred in front of my van. Ghostly figures appeared on the shoulders of the empty Sierra Highway. Trees turned into children and hitchikers, then back to trees again. Warm smells of desert and colitas drifted in through the lowered window.

I gazed sightless into the headlit night. There was a shimmering blue light up ahead in the distance. Just the thought of stopping, even for a night, caused me to perk up and shake off some of the lethargy of having driven the last hundred miles through bleak desert.

As I drew nearer, I could see that the light hung from the side of a three story, Victorian house, gray and windblown but still grand in that spectacular way only Victorians in unexpected places can be. Tenuously suspended at one corner was a weatherworn sign reading "THE HOTEL CALIFORNIA, Est. 1812, D. Siniscargo, Prop." Dimly lit windows peeked through a screened porch like eyes opening into time. I parked behind a black Mercedes.

It was nine o'clock.

I grabbed my bag and got stiffly out of the van, walked up the path and through the screen door. I was just about to knock on the heavy, oak front door when it slowly swung open. On the other side stood the most beautiful woman I had seen in many years. Her hair was thick and raven black, her skin silky smooth like alabaster or ancient ivory. She was tall and bone thin, with vivid blue eyes and long black lashes. Her intense red lips were complimented by the maroon satin dress she wore exceedingly well. Her diminutive feet were bare and perfectly formed. In her left hand was a guttering candle. Her right held the door open. She looked me over appraisingly, in a way that I had never had a woman look at me before.

"Welcome to the Hotel California."

"Thank you," I said, walking slowly past her, praying for a slip or a stumble, so that I could, perhaps, bump into her and confirm her reality.

"You must be quite tired after driving the hot desert roads."

She ushered me into the lobby. It was a luxurious introduction to the hotel. The finely varnished teak walls reflected the turquoise and scarlet of the plush oriental rugs on the floor. Candelabra were arranged hospitably throughout the room which smelled of a strange incense and glowed with a flickering, warm light. I ended my walk at a teak and glass desk, manned by a swarthy, misshapen dwarf, apparently the desk clerk. He rose and clambered, grunting, onto a specially built platform.

"Garcia," she said. "Please see that this gentleman is well taken care of. Give him the Blue Room, have Maria prepare fresh sheets and towels." She turned to me. "We have no electricity, here. My servant will provide you with candles. After you've settled in, come to the dining room. I'll have something prepared for you. Our staff is small, but I'm sure we can make your stay a comfortable one. How long were you planning to be with us, Mister . . ."

"Gage. Phineas Gage. But, please, call me Frank. I'm not sure how long I'll be staying. I had only planned on spending the night, but it seems so peaceful here."

"It is peaceful. We work very hard to ensure that it stays so. There are few disturbances at the Hotel California. At any rate, I'm hope you will find everything satisfactory. Will I see you at dinner?"

"Yes, I'll be there."

I watched her as she turned and walked purposefully away, her candle illuminating the way ahead of her. I was put in mind of a clutch of kittens playing in a cashmere sweater. Then the raucous voice of the dwarf broke into my not-so-pure thoughts.

"The Senorita, she is beautiful, is she not?"

I sighed. "Yes. Yes, she is very lovely. Senorita, you said? She's not married, then?"

"No, she is a single lady. It can be very lonely here in the desert for one such as she. We have few permanent guests, and none of her age."

"Is she the D. Siniscargo on the sign out front, the owner?"

"No, her father is the Patrone. He is away on an archaeological dig in Rumania at the moment. He travels a great deal, and the Senorita is left in charge of all matters concerning the hotel and its guests. If you will please sign the register, Senor Gage, I will show you to your room and see to your comfort."

As I signed the worn register, I saw that I was the first guest in over a year. The signature above mine was in a cramped, spidery, unreadable hand. I was saddened that this fine hotel saw so little use.

"If the Senor will follow me, please."

He turned and began to mount the carpeted stairs. He was lame in one leg, and this caused him to make a sliding, thumping sound as he dragged one foot up each step. I would have felt better had I carried my own bag, but I assumed his pride would not let him acknowledge what must have been a grievous and tedious task.

As we slowly ascended, I had ample time to examine the portraits which were displayed on the walls of the stairwell. Somber, acrimonious men and women, all in heterogeneous styles of clothing. There was something strangely compelling about the eyes of each of them, but this fascination was offset by the slackness, the morbidity of the faces. At the top of the stairs hung a portrait which seemed to have been recently painted. The dusky nobleman of this portrait was exultant. His teeth were white and lustrous. His ebony eyes held a look of animal lust and hunger. This portrait made me strangely uneasy. The man, painted though he was, had eyebrows which met above his nose, and he seemed to glare down upon the hotel in malevolent, gleeful malediction.

Here we are, Senor. I am sure you will enjoy the Blue Room. It is the finest in the hotel, reserved only for special guests," the dwarf said, grinning and showing his decayed teeth.

The walls and rugs were ultramarine, the spread on the canopy bed was cobalt, as were the canopy and drapery. Everything in the room which could be in any way imbued with color was blue, all the many and variegated shades of blue. I walked to the barred window to look down at my van. Seeing that it was all right, I turned to see the dwarf placing my bag on top of the dresser near the door leading to a small sitting room. Both rooms seemed incandescent with untroubled hospitality and calm tranquility.

As the dwarf made to leave, I reached for my wallet. He placed his chill hand on mine.

"Please, Senor, you may reward me, if you wish, when you check out. If there is anything further you require, simply ring the bell. My wife, Maria, will shortly bring fresh sheets and towels for your comfort. Dinner will be ready soon, and I am sure the Senorita will be anxious for your company. Enjoy yourself, Senor. We are all very pleased to welcome you to the Hotel California."

"Thank you," I said, as he left the room, closing the door behind him. A desk clerk? Maids? With no guests in the hotel for over a year? Either the family was extremely wealthy, or the servants were unusually loyal. It was odd, I suppose, but I chose not to dwell upon it.

I had completed my last movie two weeks ahead of schedule, and had another month before preproduction began on my next, Night of the Devilbunnies. My life had always seemed somehow empty when I wasn't working. After my wife had died, I had buried myself in the job, but between movies I wandered the side roads. Scouting locations, looking for places to house the crew, looking, I suppose, for someplace where life could be like it was in the movies, a world which was more real to me than reality. The Hotel California appeared to be one of those fortuitous discoveries, and the graceful lady of the house affected me in a way I had not been touched by a woman in many years.

I put my underwear and t-shirts into the top drawer of the dresser, took the new screenplay from my bag, and stretched out on the overstuffed bed, intending to pursue the changes and flows of a new project. I was just beginning to enjoy the twists and turns of the script - a gory little number concerning the vile dining habits of certain insane, vicious, alien rabbit invaders trying to conquer the world - when the maid rapped on the door.

"Good evening, Senor," she said quietly.

"Good evening." I watched her as she drew the spread and blankets from the bed, stripped the sheets and replaced them with freshly ironed, blue sheets. Her dusky skin seemed unusually pale. Her face was forlorn and gloomy, her movements without grace. She glanced apprehensively out of the corner of her eye, turned back to her work, crossed herself and muttered.

"Ai, Madre de Dios. Pobrecito...pobrecito," she said. Then, in English, "Senor, for the love of God, leave this place! Leave, now, before..."

There was a scuffling, shuffling sound outside the open door. Maria's face turned cold and emotionless, her eyes dull and lifeless.

"My husband has asked me to tell you that dinner is ready."

"Fine, Maria, but..."

She shushed me, placing a warning finger against her lips. And I let the matter drop, not understanding, and not caring enough to try to understand. Whatever it was that bothered her so, it was none of my concern.

The dining room tables were bare and dusty, save one linen-set table off to the side, near a doorway which exhaled warm, spicy kitchen smells. My footsteps echoed from the wooden floor as I walked beneath the candled chandeliers and sat at the table. Upon the tablecloth was a single setting, fine bone chine, with a family crest embossed in gold. The design was of a wolf, rampant, in what appeared to be a field of white and gold flowers, surmounted by the name Siniscargo. The service was solid gold, expertly cast. I was admiring the complex, twisted engraving on the handle of a salad fork when she appeared and sat across the table from me.

She had changed into a lace and satin dress that looked as if it had, at one time, done service as a wedding gown, and then been altered. At her white, narrow throat hung a blood red brooch, engraved with the same crest as that on the plates. Her eyes were warm and limpid, drawing me into their limitless depths where I ardently wished to linger.

"I hope you found the room to your satisfaction," she said.

"Yes, in every way. It's a lovely room, fit more for...oh, honey mooning couples than for a tired director on a busman's holiday."

"It indeed served as a honeymoon suite many times when the hotel was younger and not quite so weary." The dwarf chose that moment to roll a tray loaded with food and wine to the table. "Ah," she said, "here is your meal. Thank you, Garcia. That will be all, for now."

"Si, Senorita."

"So," she said, turning back to me, "you're a director. Perhaps I've seen a film of yours?"

"Probably not," I replied, feeling little desire to talk shop. "Listen here, even though we've been getting on famously, I don't even know your name."

"Elizabeth. Elizabeth Siniscargo"

"Well, Elizabeth, would you care to share the wine with me?"

"No. No, thank you. I rarely drink. But do allow me to pour a glass for you. It is a particularly savory vintage."

From the decanter, she gently poured the blood red wine into my crystal goblet. I drew it near, savoring the rich, earthy aroma. I sipped, and was amazed at the tangy-sweet taste. I had never sampled a wine quite like it.

"The vintage?" I asked.

"It's a Rumanian delight, distilled from herbs and flowers during the winters, high in the Carpathians. It is considered very rare and precious, said to be good for the blood.

"Thank you for allowing me to sample it. I'll enjoy its pleasure to the fullest. But where are your other guests? Won't they be joining us?"

I'm afraid not. They are night people, for the most part, as am I, and they tend to keep to themselves. The kitchen remains open to them at all hours, and they simply serve themselves.

I had imbibed my goblet of strange wine by this time, yet still thirsted for more of its ineffable taste. Elizabeth seemed to glow in the candlelight, while I rambled on, talking without my brain being aware of what I was saying or what I was doing. As I began to cut my meat, the knife slipped and carved a deep slash into my finger, mingling my blood with that of the steak.

Her eyes widened. "Oh," she said, breathlessly, "you've cut yourself."

"It's nothing, really. I don't know what's wrong with me. If you'll just let me have a napkin to wrap it with, I'm sure it will be fine."

"Please, allow me to help you."

She took my hand in hers and drew it to her mouth. Her tongue ran over my finger while she sucked the blood gently from the cut. It was a distinctly intense, erotic sensation. And, as the finger grew numb, other long neglected feelings began to wake and search for attention. Then, suddenly, she released my finger and sat back in her chair. Her face was ruddy and flushed, her breathing rapid and heavy.

"These things can sometimes be serious," she said. "Please, have another glass of wine and finish your meal."

I assured her it was nothing, a mere scratch. But she would listen to none of my protestations.

After I had finished my meal and another glass of wine, she insisted on accompanying me to my room. The wine had made me bold as well as a bit tipsy, and I thought I would try my luck with this lovely lady, even though I was sadly out of practice. I leaned against the doorjamb, put my arms around her narrow waist and drew her close.

"Later, when you've finished whatever you need to do?" I said.

"you're tired," she replied. "After you rest...perhaps."

Indeed, I was tired. I started to yawn before she even finished speaking. I gazed into her brilliant blue eyes and lost myself in their hypnotic depths. Then, before I could stop myself, I fell forward, almost unconscious, into her arms. Arms which were stronger than I would ever have imagined.

"There, you see? You're exhausted."

"My dear Elizabeth," I said, "I must apologize for my rude manners." I kissed her carefully, wondering at the coldness of her lips, but too tired to think much of it.

I woke in the middle of the night, confused by the total darkness of the room. I had had a nightmare. Elizabeth had been chasing me and I had been running in senseless terror. She had been crying at me to stop, that she had to fill me up with blood before it all drained out through the cut on my finger. I was running toward a group of decaying gray men who were hunched over some strange beast, stabbing and slashing at it with steely knives and forks. A silly, stupid dream, but one which, nonetheless, left me shivering on top of the bed.

A vague uneasiness, a sense of strange familiarity, would not let me relax again.

In the darkness, shadows rose from the nooks and corners of the room in an obscene parody of night. I went to the window. Below in the courtyard, five men were executing some sort or ritualistic dance in the dim moonlight. As I watched, a sudden knock made me jump.

"Yes, who is it?"

From beyond the door, softly, came a sweet, muffled voice. "Frank, it's Elizabeth. Let me in, please."

I opened the door. She stood in the candle lit hallway, the nebulous light shining through her hair like morning sunlight in the forest. She smelled deliciously of earth and cinnamon. She was wearing a diaphanous white nightgown, and seemed to be shivering in the chilly corridor. I could see her nipples, red and erect through the thin silk.

"I've been terribly lonely, Frank. Won't you stay a while longer, share a bit of your life with me?"

"Of course. Of course, I will."

We moved unhurriedly to the bed. Her gentle touch seemed to light a fire against my skin, and her body glowed in the darkness as I laid her head on the pillow. I could see her every feature, clear and unblemished, though there was no light in the room to provide illumination for our unexpected tryst. I reached for her breast, unable to help myself. The feel of her hard nipple branded itself into my palm.

Outside, in the bleak, cold desert, coyotes were howling mournfully.

"Listen to them," she whispered. "The orphans of the desert. Is their song not sad and lovely?"

She kissed my eyelids and, with her kiss, her lips felt hauntingly cold.

"You hunger," she said. "Don't you?"

"It's been a long, long time," I replied dreamily.

"Do you truly want me? Enough to perhaps stay here forever? I can promise that you will never hunger again. But I must warn you, Frank, my love is strong, and it's forever. There are many rewards, and there are costs. Are you prepared for that?"

"Yes," I said, wanting only to touch, to hold her. "Yes, anything you want, anything. I'll stay here forever, if that's what you wish."

I should have known better than to make such quick promises, but I was being flooded with feeling I thought I had forgotten. The emptiness inside me that had ached so badly for so long was being filled in ways I never expected, never even imagined.

The room seemed to brighten for an instant as I looked lovingly at her face, clearly visible in the strange illumination. Her smile was identical to that on the face portrayed in that last stairway portrait...lust and desperate hunger.

She moved to lie on top of me and I felt myself slip easily, soul-shakingly inside her. Though her lips might have been cold, she was warm and liquid in the center of her, a warmth that seemed to enfold me entirely in its caress.

Before that odd light faded, she lowered her head to my shoulder. I could not resist her, even as I saw the razor sharp fangs growing from her mouth, and felt the warm, hissing caress of her breath on my neck. Her hips moved slowly, gently, irresistibly against me. She pierced my jugular in the darkness even while I was still lying helpless, a part of me, in turn, piercing her. Our souls seemed to touch and mingle. I listened to the delicate moaning, sucking sounds she made and grew harder, even more aroused.

She raised her head after only an eternal minute. With my blood fresh on her lips, she said, "Bite, Frank. Bite deeply at my neck and drink. Drink of my blood, of my life, of my fire and of my death, so that you may never die but live here forever with me."

I didn't even think of denying the gift she offered as she turned her neck to me. I bit. Viscid, fiery blood gushed into my mouth, shattering me, causing my self, my essence, to gush into her...

Elizabeth and I oversee the running of the Hotel California together, now. we love each other deeply and freely, in the sure knowledge that our love will go on forever, never fading, always burning with the cold fire of our intertwined souls. And we're always happy to welcome visitors at the Hotel California. If, someday, you find yourself driving the Sierra Highway, late at night, through the high desert, and your eyes are growing heavy and tired, stop. We always have room here. We're open any time of the year. Just remember this one, small thing. You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave...